Death in Life
by SirKriS
Summary: "After all she had survived through; Moriarty's return, Moran's following vengeance, it had all been for naught. In the end, she was taken away by an act of random violence."
1. Painful Begining

It was pouring that day. The smell of asphalt merging with the stench of the dumpster lodged carelessly in the alleyway. Sherlock barely registered his surroundings, not even as his soaking coat weighed him down. All he did was stare at a certain puddle by the wall.

It had since seeped over the cracks of the uneven ground to form smaller pools but the source was starkly different from the rest. On that pool was the slumped body of a woman, mid-30s, long brown. A large stab wound to the left side of her abdomen indicated the source of all the blood. Her skin had since paled to a blue hue from the exposure.

Sherlock blinked, his mind still trying to comprehend what he was looking at. It was impossible. No, not impossible, he knew that. There was no mistake, but in that moment, facts failed to help him come to terms with the reality before him.

Molly Hooper is dead.

The thought struck him like a physical blow. Although centered at his chest, it hurt him everywhere. After all she had survived through; Moriarty's return, Moran's following vengeance, it had all been for not. In the end, she was taken away by an act of random violence. A burglary gone terribly wrong.

Sherlock would have laughed, had he not been aware it would leave him vulnerable to unleash waves of sentiment he had been harboring since he got the the call, and even before that. He blinked again, this time focusing on her lifeless arm lying in the puddle of blood. Once more the cruel truth echoed through the silent halls of his Mind Palace.

_Molly Hooper is dead._

"They're going to send the body to Barts soon."

Sherlock flinched at the words and turn to glare at the man that had spoken. Lestrade was extending an umbrella to shield him. His face bore the usual mask of professionalism but today Sherlock was more than aware of the facade. She was his friend too. He felt himself relax at the mutuality.

The muffled patter of raindrops on the umbrella was all that filled the silence that fell over them. It was only when Lestrade spoke again that Sherlock realised he had been looking right through the DI, his thoughts lost in something he couldn't recall.

"Listen I understand if you don't want to take this one. The Yard can handle the case."

"I'll find him in an hour."

He walked away from the scene briskly. As he approached the main street his mind began to compartmentalise the situation. He dismissed most of the personal sentiment derived from his connection to the victim, allowing some anger to fuel his determination to find the culprit as soon as possible. To some extent he was aware that a part of him was already preparing for what he would do once he caught the murderer but he focused his attention on the details he had gathered.

A cab pulled over right before him and John stepped out after frantically throwing bills at the driver.

"I got here as I could. Is it true?"

A brief nod from the consulting detective confirmed his fears.

"Oh, God no."

Sherlock contemplated heading out without him. He had signaled the cab he arrived with and had every intention to leave in it. He was not willing to re-examine the body for John's benefit. Sherlock didn't think he had it in him to see her like that; not presently. Sherlock wasn't even sure if he wanted to go after the murderer without him.

John however, made the decision for him as he returned to the cab.

"Let's go."

He followed after and barked directions at the driver. They were soon in motion, moving further away from her end, and moving much closer to what Sherlock will ensure to be the criminal's end.**  
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><p>Molly worked an extra shift; the third one in that week. The epilogue of what most certainly had been the most terrifying chapter of her life had left Molly enough experiences to haunt her. She had found stability in increasing her work load. That way she had no time to contemplate on her on them. It wasn't healthy, but it always worked for her. In the end, she always mended.<p>

She grabbed her things from the locker and booked for a cab with her mobile. By the time she got out of Barts, it was waiting for her outside. She didn't realise just how exhausted she was until she had sat down. The heater had been blasted so high that Molly soon found herself dozing off in the backseat. It had felt like a minute but the driver's voice alerted her that they had arrived.

She looked groggily out of the window and frowned.

"This isn't my address."

"Your street's been blocked ma'am."

She looked confused for a moment and was about to refute his statement when she remembered.

"Oh, right."

It had been barred for a week city was finally doing something about the pot-holes. Molly shook her head, dazed at by how she had completely forgotten. She supposed it spoke for how tired she was.

Upon paying for the cab, she crossed the street towards the alley way. The cold air had done wonders to clear up her head and she could now tell she was a little over a block away from her home. The alley way led to the backdoor to a small cafe she frequented over weekends.

The stillness of the night just reminded her she should be asleep with the rest of the neighborhood. She was mentally picking out her clothes for the next day when she was roughly tugged towards the alley.

Her back collided painfully with the dumpster. A blood-curling scream was forming in her chest when she felt a sharp object scrape her neck. The alley was dark, and the streetlights had kept her from immediately adjusting to the light. All she could see was the attacker's silhouette, and his shadowed face prove to make him appear more formidable.

"Don't you even think about screaming," hissed a voice surprisingly close to her face.

She was petrified on the spot, unable to move, not even swallow as she felt the knife hover dangerously on the surface of her throat.

"Gimme the bag."

Her fear scrambled her thoughts and she stared, unable understand what was being asked of her.

"Your bag damn it! Give me the bag!" He hollered, his blade cutting a thin line.

"Okay! Okay!" She shrieked, hastily giving him her purse.

The blade was immediately lowered as the man plundered through the purse, looking for what probably should be her wallet.

Molly glanced nervously to the end of the alley. Everything in her was screaming to run for it. she was so close to home, if only she could get to the door. But could she outrun him? She turned to the man who was still ravaging her purse. It was only them she noticed he was shaking. She had no time to consider anything beyond that when he suddenly dropped her purse and lunged for her.

"The money. I need money. WHERE IS IT?"

The blade was now positioned on her abdomen and Molly's fear intensified as she felt his hand tremble. He was unstable, he was mad.

"My w-wallet sh-should be there."

"STOP LYING!"

She whimpered as she felt the jab break through skin again. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"I can't-t-ake it anymore." The man nearly whined. " .Money."

"My coat," Molly explained, finally remembering she had placed it there after paying for the cab. She reached in slowly to retrieve the wallet for him when he panicked.

"No!" He grabbed the lapels of her coat and she instinctively lashed out at his face. A gasp escaped her when she felt a searing stab cut through her. The man moved back, staring at her as she felt herself slide down to the floor. The hilt of the knife remained lodged in her. Her heartbeat roared in her ears but she could still hear the man's panicky breaths.

He turned as if to run away but then crouched down to ruffle through her coat. A surge of pain and nausea took over her but the man seemed more determined her wallet.

It hurt so much. She felt herself losing herself to the pain. Her eyes shut as she waited for him to leave her. At that point that was all she could think about; him getting away as far as possible. Molly's eyes flew open when her wound pulsed painfully. She saw him just as he tugged it wretchedly out of her.

He dashed out immediately afterward, leaving Molly to bleed out. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move and most of all, it hurt to be alive. No one had come to her rescue yet, despite her cries and she had no energy to put enough pressure on her wound to make a difference.

Molly groaned as she felt her agony intensify. The cold made it no easier for her, and she soon wished for everything to end. Her hands clenched again as a gust of wind passed over the wound and she finally noticed there was something in her hand.

Her mind scrambled to work out why she had it when it dawned on her. She then made a decision; if she was going to die, then she rather have done everything possible to settle her murder. There was no point despairing over the inevitable. With incredible effort, she shifted herself upright and began to drag herself towards the direction he had left.

She only managed to get a few feet away from the dumpster, before relaxing against the wall. It was too hard, and she could feel the tendrils of sleep were tugging at her to give in. She turned to look at his escape route. It had been towards her home, her safety. She smiled ruefully at that and took a glance at her wound. The blood had soaked through her coat, and a pool was forming around her.

She doesn't know how long she remained there like that. Her desire to sleep felt hindered by the nagging cold and excruciating pain. She tried not to feel sorry for herself, difficult as it was. But philosophy failed to distract her from her body's struggle to hold on to her mortality. Her thoughts strayed to Sherlock, and she wondered if he would take the case. She doubted it, as it wasn't going to be a mysterious one.

The thought made her sad, so she chose not to think of anything at all. Eventually, she finally felt herself give in and a familiar prayer surfaced to mind.

_Now I lay me down to sleep_

_I pray the Lord, my soul to keep_

"If..I should die before I wake," she whispered.

"I pray the Lord my soul to take."

She released her last breath, and her arm fell limply into her own pool of blood.

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><p><strong><span>AN: Yay? Nay?  
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	2. Risk of Silence

**A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for the reviews and favs and follows! I hardly expected any since major character death stories aren't popular (especially when it happens in the first chapter dear me). Just to emphasize this point again Molly is not gone forever. Until then bear with me.**

**Enjoy~**

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><p>Sherlock and John had been away in Essex for the weekend. It had been a high nine on Sherlock's scale and his exhaustion was proof of the chaos they attracted trying to get to the bottom of the case. They had returned on the earliest train back and John had determined that he would allow nothing short of an earthquake to wake him once he got back home. So it was much to his irritation when he heard his phone ringing no more than half hour upon arriving; his pillow had barely warmed up. He reluctantly reached out for his mobile, ready to hang up when the name on the caller, gave him pause. Lestrade was not prone to call him at odd hours, although a glance at the clock reminded him it was just 7am. It was this point in mind that he answered.<p>

"John?" Lestrade asked nervously. John offered a grunt at the time but it didn't discourage him from going on. "I wasn't sure if Sherlock would tell you right away. We got a report an hour ago about a body I called Sherlock for—for an ID."

At the time he had wondered what Lestrade was talking about. Sherlock didn't know enough people he cared about to require him to identify a body, but he muddled through his drowsiness to understand. "Yeah and?" John had mumbled.

"And…you see the description of the victim suggests that…."

John had frowned over his hesitation for a second before the implication sank in. He quickly got rushed out to leave as quietly possible, apprehension weighing down every step he took out of the bedroom.

"Who is it?" he asked, not daring to guess whom it could be.

"…we think it's Molly."

This was the short conversation that played through on his cab ride to the crime scene. Mary had woken during the conversation, perhaps sensing something was wrong but he didn't tell her, and wasn't planning to until it was confirmed; the news just felt so surreal that he hoped there was a mix up. However, Sherlock's nod confirming his fears dashed those hopes away. Now there he was in the same cab, but with Sherlock and with a much larger concern than grief plaguing him. He didn't seem angry or upset. They all had their brushes with death, but no one in their small circle of friends had actually died.

It wasn't the silence that made it strange. Sherlock often occupied himself in his Mind Palace during the short break between his destinations; but all he appeared to be doing was looking out the window, seemingly absorbing the passing scenery provided him. It didn't make sense. Sherlock would never want anything irrelevant to clutter his mind, and John couldn't see how anything around them would be significant. If anything, he was sure they were on their way to apprehending the person or people involved. It was then that John realised he didn't even know the circumstances surrounding her death. Had it been some kind of accident or a revenge plot? Maybe there was more to this than John had yet to understand; he had only chanced a few seconds of the crime scene, granted it had been several feet away.

"No conspiracy. Just a burglary." Sherlock deadpanned.

John startled. He hadn't expected to speak anytime soon. He thought to ask if he was certain, but instead nodded in acknowledgement. Of course Sherlock would have already explored that line of thought.

"It would have hurt."

"What?" John turned back to Sherlock, surprised he had spoken on his own again.

"Stab wound to the mid abdomen. The autopsy will be more precise but the position indicates it unlikely that the stomach was damaged, but the pancreas might have been compromised." Sherlock still wasn't looking at him as he explained. He sounded as clinical as he ever was, but the arrogance that underscored his tone was not there. John understood he needed the objectivity and so he listened on quietly.

"She would have gotten off today's altered shift at 2am, arrived home half an hour later at her doorstep had the road construction not had her dropped off a street over where she took the alleyway as a means of a shortcut and was stabbed."

The words were rapid but John considered them as he tried to infer the timeline. John nodded unconsciously as he tried to make sense of the timeline. If the call to the police had come in an hour before Lestrade told him then it would have come in at 6am.

"Drawn streaks of blood indicate she tried to move out of the alley, either away or towards the killer. Definitely the latter knowing her—"

John looked up, puzzled as to why he stopped. He was still looking out the window, and while he still showed no sign of emotion, John knew something was wrong but wasn't able to contemplate on what for Sherlock resumed his impassive deductions, and he was stumbling to figure out what Sherlock wanted him to understand.

"Lividity in her fingers and slight rigor mortis limited to the upper body implies that death occurred no more than 4 hours ago."

It finally hit him when the time of death came to light. There would have been at least a two hour duration from the attack. She would have died much sooner if she had gone into shock. The autopsy would confirm but if she didn't bleed out fast enough then she would have endured a slow and painful death. John shut his eyes, and he contemplated on letting the anguish of learning a close friend had been murdered to take over when he spoke again.

"It would have hurt."

Those words, repeated much more softly and with every emotion he had managed so far to keep at bay in it. They fell into silence, one John could not keep once he realised that Sherlock had said almost nothing about the actual culprit

"And the burglar?"

"Not important."

"Not im—what do you mean _not important_?"

"Just know we're our way to collect him."

There was something about the way he said that alarmed John. It suddenly occurred to him that Lestrade might not know where they were going, let alone share any deductions about the man responsible as he normally did.

"Sherlock," he said trying to calm. "We're just going to find him then let the authorities arrest him right?"

He offered no reassurance, urging John into action. He hastily pulled out his mobile to text what he recall of the address to John. Sherlock suddenly got the driver to stop by the sidewalk. John looked up, confused as to what had changed. "Sherlock," he warned, though a hint of panic lingered in his voice.

He was opening the door and John found himself stuck in between informing Lestrade where they were or stopping Sherlock from doing something terrible. It only felt like a moment, but a moment was all it took.

"Sherlock!" He had already crossed the hectic street. He was gone.

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><p><strong><span>AN: I'm so sorry I had to cut it there. I'll upload the next chapter by next week.**

**P.S. I could make you guys look it up but I'll put it on here because I like it when authors do:  
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**Lividity - It happens during livor mortis. This is when blood flow ha stopped after death and it's being down pulled by gravity to the body's lowest point. In Molly's case, it would pool in her fingers and lower body. Those locations would be discolored (purpleish ). It occurs in the first 2-8hrs of death.**

**Rigor Mortis - I'm sure TV shows/movies have taught most of us about this but I'll say it anyway. It's when the body stiffens intensively. Calcium builds up in the body due to the body's inability to remove the excess after death. It starts slowly from head to toe (in that progressive manner), normally around 2hrs after death and reaches fullest stiffness 12hrs after death.**

**Okay! Tell me what you think so far?**


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